The Genius Mind Of Sherlock Holmes
by The Science of DeductionSH
Summary: John Watson writes about his dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, the cases, and the unforseen path of life that led him to know true friendship, in his blog. Multi-chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own Sherlock, BBC, or any of the characters, etc. Mark Gatiss** **and Steven Moffat, are the real creators of the show.** **All this work is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit or gain.** **Enjoy!**

* * *

Prologue

-SH-

The genius mind of Sherlock Holmes is something very few people have the pleasure to experience. The man is an enigma, wrapped in layers of secrecy. There is a strong aroma of mystery encompassing him which seems to fill every room he occupies. He has a talent for pointing out even the slightest detail out of place; finding in seconds, what a normal person would find in minutes. You can almost see every thought that races through his body. His shining intelligence, reflected in his alluring eyes.

His tall and slender figure is an advantage when chasing criminals through the various streets of London. He reminds me of a trained Bloodhound, picking out a scent. But there is one man that tests the very foundation of his intellect. One man who has tipped the scales of justice in his favor. This Napoleon of crime, is none-other, than Professor James Moriarty— A genius in every sense of the word, twisted maniacally towards evil. His only goal, to destroy Sherlock Holmes. They are two sides of the same coin. In most ways, they are as different as night and day. But in other ways, they are as similar as an oyster and a pearl, each one needing the other to coexist.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't always so solicitous. When I first met him, he was the most rude, obnoxious, egotistic git you'd ever have the misfortune of knowing. But through the years, i've gotten to know a different side of him; the man behind the esoteric mask, which he so cleverly keeps hidden from the rest of the world. Being an army doctor from Afghanistan, I wasn't expecting to be working side by side with the most famous and the most genius detective in London. Or that I would someday know the true friendship of Sherlock Holmes.

~ JW

* * *

 **feel free to review:)**


	2. Chapter 1: The Introduction

**I don't own Sherlock, any of the characters by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, or BBC, etc. Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat are the real creators of the show. All this work is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit or gain.**

 **I also don't own the lines from any of the series.**

 **I got bored, and this just happened. Keep in mind that I know John doesn't have the memory of a savant, and generally in a blog you don't remember almost every detail of every encounter even if it's the day of, but I think this style is more immersive and relaxing; even if it's not really possible.**

 **I have Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan to thank for transcribing a script so I didn't have to watch the episodes dozens of times.**

 **Please enjoy!**

* * *

Case: A Study In Pink

Chapter 1: The Introduction

-SH-

My adventures began with pain. And well... quite honestly that hasn't changed much except on rare occasions now. The Royal Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers were my family and the filthy, pain-filled encampments were my home. Yes, we didn't exactly have a sanctuary type of home where stepping inside it would give you a feeling of warmth and safety. And though it may be a poor example of home to those who see it as being four walls, a roof, and a Welcome mat, it was home to many of us, we depended on each other like any other family.

It was a trade mark in every war; we all watched each others backs, covered them when enemy fired fell down on us like steel-hail and all you could hear were the screams and shouts to advance or retreat back- Though however gruesome and terrible, they served a purpose much like the ricochet of a bullet; drawing us away from the danger zones before another hit. Being a medic I always tried my best to get to the injured as fast as I could with as little casualty as I could, but I managed... at least most of the time to drag the injured behind our stone barriers to help him. I have one man in particular to deeply thank for that.

His name was Jacob, a soldier previously stationed in Iraq that had joined our regiment within the first year that I had joined. I didn't know it then, but by the end of our time serving together he had saved my life and the lives of my patients countless times. Frankly I don't know how he managed it, but when I ran out to assist the wounded I would nearly always return with barely a few scratches on the worst of days. He was, in a way... my guardian angel on the battlefield.

But this is war we're talking about... not some cleanly wrapped up movie ending where everyone lives happily ever after. No. This was messy. This was hardship. And Finally, there came a time when our companionship came to an end along with another precious life. He was a true hero... to the end. He sacrificed his life to find a direct-root through to enemy territory.

I regret that I wasn't there to save him after the countless times he was there to save me, I regret that I failed him by not aiding him sooner before I was put briefly out of commission.

But mostly I regret that I was invalided before I got a chance to stick one to those merciless sods who killed him in such a cruel way. That will always weigh heavily on me...

It has.

* * *

...But that chapter of my life was over. At least, partially over, anyway. The nightmares seemed to be a permanent addition, along with the constant therapy. I knew my 'condition' as she so said it wouldn't be cured by getting out more or writing a blog about my experiences. Only one thing cured me. But that's to be disclosed at a later date.

I had no choice but to seek out some civilian lifestyle so I came to London to see about possible living quarters that were within my army pension. I had previously turned up a few stones that would be in the range, but the rent was always the deviant, not the size or neighborhood.

Russell Square Park had been my usual quiet place to think and walk around after a stuffy day in the hospital, back in the day. But even with my handicap it still served its purpose to somewhat relax the tension before I began searching again.

The garden was nice to see again as I walked the broad perimeter, hedged to screen it from the street; a large lawn intersected by a broad walk under 2 rows of lime trees, admirably shading the pathway, the statue of Francis Russell, Duke of Bedford; on the south. The sweet perfume of roses, daffodils and lilacs, mixed with the cool morning air woth a slight nip to it, refreshed you with every inhale.

Finally, I neared the end of the journey and limped languidly through the park, leaning heavily on my bloody cane as I neared the familiar bench that always waited for me in the past. Of course, back then I would just stride on past the lump of wood; too proud of my vitality to give into a quick respite. Now I felt the nagging and slight burning of my protesting leg, fight against my will, rendering me helpless to do anything but surrender. But _Hell_ if I wasn't still a soldier.

I creakily made my way past the bench, sights set ahead in determination to make it over to a cab; that's when I heard my name being shouted in recognition.

"John! John Watson!"

I turned back to see a man rising from the bench and hurrying the few feet over to me, smiling. "Stanford. Mike Stanford. We were at Bart's together."

If I were being honest, I didn't even recognize him at first. The man I knew was lean, with a full head of hair, and a prominent jawline. This man was… "Yes, sorry, yes, Mike." I then knew of my mistake and tried to compensate, taking Mike's offered hand in a friendly shake. "Hello, hi."

He grinned and gestured to himself and right away, I knew that he had seen my hesitation. "Yeah, I know. I got fat!" He joked, but I could clearly see him stiffen in discomfort.

I tried my very best to sound convinced when I spoke, "No." But he saw through my pathetic façade, knowing I wasn't an idiot. Thankfully for the both of us, he didn't press further.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. "What happened?" He asked.

My answer was almost like a boomerang, seemingly hard-wired to deliver it after only a second. "I got shot." I regretted the response as soon as it was past my lips. Apparently so did Mike.

Later in the day, we had bought some take-away coffees and were side by side on that infernal bench again. I took a sip of coffee then looked across to my old friend who was staring at me intently. I hoped he wasn't trying to find the area of my bullet wound. I spoke up, eager to switch his attention.

"Are you still at Bart's, then?"

"Teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!"

We both laughed. The awkwardness was slowly fading.

"What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"

It briefly crossed my mind to tell him about all the flat hunting I'd been up to during the last few days, but I doubted even he knew a place within my range of expenditure.

"I can't afford London on an Army pension." Short and simple was best.

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know," he replied, cheerfully.

He didn't know me anymore. War had changed me, either for the better or worse. I wasn't the same doctor with a plastic name tag and a bright eyed curious expression eagerly walking through the doors to my first patient. It made me uncomfortable to think of those times, how inexperienced I was in the medical practice. "Yeah, I'm not the John Watson…"

I contemplated this thought again. Switching my cup to my right hand, I looked down at my left, clenching it into a fist as I tried to control the tremor that had just started. Mike looked around at me again.

"Couldn't Harry help?"

No, Harry had moved on with her own life, I couldn't interfere with that. "Yeah, like _that's_ gonna happen!" I remarked sarcastically.

Mike shrugged. Clearly he was a bit frustrated, but still eager to help as I heard the catch in his voice. "I dunno – get a flat share or something…"

I had to admit that the idea of getting a flat mate to split the rent with had crossed my mind once or twice, but I had never been compatible with any roommates in college, always complaining that I was studying too late, got back in the dorm too late, slept loudly; the army had changed one of those things at least. And the list goes on. So what would be different about... a flatmate? "Come on - Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike chuckled thoughtfully.

I didn't understand if that was him agreeing with me, or making a wordless quip at my incompatibility. "What?"

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today."

I couldn't believe another person had voiced those same words that day. Naturally I was curious as to who was this socially misfitted creature of society. "Who was the first?"

My curiosity only grew as he described him. What did he looked like? To be honest, after our conversation I was expecting to see a four-eyed nerd leaning over a few beakers in the Chemistry department, but that was always my washed-out visual whenever someone described an abnormally smart person.

Bart's was a bit different from when I had last seen it before the war. Of course when you leave a place for a long stretch of time and then return to it there are going to be changes, it's the natural order. The place was cleaner than I had remembered it, more efficient. The very walls seemed to be drenched in disinfectant and it produced a very strong aroma that seemed to encompass the entire hospital. When I voiced this, Mike chuckled, "You've no idea!"

At the time, I didn't think much of this to be honest. But that was until I saw _Him…_

When I made it to the lab, I was very much surprised to see a man of pale complexion; which surprising worked on him instead of making him look half dead, peering into the lens of a microscope, wearing no glasses at all. He was very thin, but not a toothpick and had curly dark hair, and lips that drew up into a perfect cupids bow.

His eyes were hard to see at that distance even as he lifted his gaze briefly to take in the new visitor that had just entered his space. Naturally I started to close the distance. I wanted to see the eyes of my future flat mate mostly out of curiosity but also to read a small frame of his life. Some soldiers had those eyes that held a lifetimes worth of error and pain inside them and you could always tell which one of them had literally seen hell, every experience of it was written in their eyes. I was abnormaly curious as to what would be written in his?

To my surprise though, he suddenly asked for a mobile phone. His voice was uncharacteristically deep, and it held a warm quality that made it pleasurable to hear. Mike had left his phone in his coat, so I offered up mine and he began texting away at it, didn't even bother to look beside him or introduce himself before starting.— Socially misfitted seemed an adequate description to describe the man after all. But then he spoke in this smooth rumble and asked me two questions. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

And I thought, maybe I didn't hear him correctly, maybe I was mistaken because this stranger couldn't possibly know I was an army man just from looking at me. I squinted at him and asked him to explain himself, "Sorry?"

He just repeated the question with a slight change. "Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Here was a man that I had just met and he somehow knew that I had served in the military. Not only that but he knew where I served. I had no idea at the time how that was possible so asked him how he knew, which didn't exactly go well.

Molly Hooper, a Pathologist at Bart's, entered carrying a cup of coffee, which I guess was for the stranger, potentially ruining my chance to get a response. I remember them carrying on a small conversation about small mouthed lips, something to that effect; I wasn't exactly listening at the time, and then I heard him say; "How do you feel about the violin?"

I scanned around for the pathologist but she had already left, then to Mike who was smirking smugly at me. Finally I got the hint and turned towards the other man who seemed like he was waiting for a reply. He had been talking to me, but again I wasn't sure what he meant this time and asked for clarification once more, which he responded with, "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

He threw me the falsest of smiles, which my mind just blanked on, and for a moment I couldn't really process how he knew that until I thought of Stamford. I faced him with a look that I know must have contained the expression of 100 questions and said, "Oh, you ... you told him about me?" Yes, that must've been the reason why that strange man knew, because Mike Stamford had told him I was looking for a place. It all made sense now.

Of course a second later all that sense was muddied with three words from Mike, "Not a word."

I turned toward the stranger eager for a more in-depth explanation. "Then who said anything about flatmates?"

He picked up his coat and put it on before responding in a synonymous tone. "I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

I wasn't about to believe that he just figured it out. Such a thing was surely either extremely difficult or impossible in my mind. I wasn't about to believe that this stranger possessed those rare skills naturally. Again I asked him the question which had not since left my mind. "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

Instead of an answer, again, however, he went off on a tangent, talking about a place in central London that we could afford as if we could just move in together as total strangers.

He then walked towards me and headed for the door in preparation to leave before speaking again. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

Part of me heard the 'we'll meet there,' part, but the other was slightly worried about why he would use a riding crop in the mortuary. I blocked out the disturbing images. The first part of me had won over the rest and I turned on my heels to look at him. "Is that it?"

He turned back from the door and strode over to me. "Is that what?"

I couldn't believe that he didn't understand the dangers of the whole situation, him being at least what looked and seemed to be a clever man. "We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?"

All he said in reply was, "Problem?"

Definitely socially impaired.

I smiled in disbelief, and looked over to Mike for help, but he just continued to smile as he looked at the man. Turning back to the stranger I voiced the obvious to him that he apparently still hadn't got. "We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name."

He looked closely at me, his gaze piercing, and that's when I could see him. Really see him. This man had led a normal life, nothing dangerous or special at all. Average. Though, his eyes definitely didn't conform to the sense of ordinary; they were the most vibrant blue I had ever seen and when he tilted his head just slightly, they changed to a light green. They almost didn't even look human, more like they were alien.

He began to speak, and little did I know that I had just unleashed, The Calculating Machine. "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid."

I looked down at my leg. It seemed to have been causing me more of a problem in the last few weeks, making it hard to remain upright for too long without the pain. After, I took a glance at my cane or as I thought of it— my reminder that i'm no longer able to walk like a normal person, no longer fit for active duty, I shuffled my feet in an awkward manner, trying to wrap my head around the dose of quick fire speech I was just given. Maybe he was an alien after all?

He gave me a smug look, and spoke, "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He turned and walked to the door again, opening it and going through, but then, to my surprise, leaned back into the room again.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He shot me a combination of a click and a wink, then focused on Mike, greeting him. "Afternoon."

So that was his name. Definitely not an ordinary name, I concluded after the door slammed shut.

I turned and looked at Mike in disbelief. Mike just smiled and nodded. "Yeah. He's always like that."

What was I getting myself into?

* * *

 **So what do you think, would you like to see every episode done this way?**


	3. Chapter 2: Mock Representation

Case: A Study in Pink

Chapter 2: Mock Representation

-SH-

After our first meeting, I later returned to my bedsit with the intention of researching everything I could about Sherlock Holmes. I needed to find out just exactly what I was getting myself into, with what kind of man I would be sharing a living space. Setting myself down on the bed, I took out my mobile phone and flicked through the menu to find Messages Sent. The last message read:

If brother has green ladder

arrest brother.

SH

I was puzzled. As far as I knew he could've meant an actual green later or some sort of organization lingo. Now, brother was either a reference to his brother, someone else's brother, or a camera. I didn't have a clue how those intersected correctly so after a long moment I gave up and fixed my eyes across to the table where my laptop was currently lying.

I had stared at it like it was the finish line at the end of a tiring race, as if writing a blog post would renew me and give me vitality, but now for some reason, I was completely set on doing something entirely different; research. Pushing myself to my feet, I walked over to the table.

Ready to begin an investigation, I called up a search website called, Quest and typed "Sherlock Holmes" into the search box. There were many links that came up, but one in particular caught my eye. "The Science of Deduction" I read through his bio, shaking my head and scoffing at his so called ability to identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb. It wasn't possible in my mind.

Though there was more material, I had seen all I needed.

* * *

Between my defective leg and the long London streets, I arrived at Baker Street within 10 minutes, a personal best. Not that it mattered, I chided, pressing my lips thinly as I limped along the road until I reached the door marked 221B in gold metallic letters and numbers; just as I heard and saw within the range of my peripheral vision, the engine of a black cab pull up to the curb behind me.

Thinking nothing of it, I knocked on the door; as I heard the occupant of the vehicle step out.

"Hello."

That voice. I recognized it. It was slightly higher and less baritone, but It was Sherlock's. I turned around to see him quickly pay his driver and walk over to me. I pivoted, following his direction before greeting him in a formal manner. "Ah, Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock, please," he corrected, shaking my hand.

It may have been the lighting of the lab or I just somehow slipped up on the detail, but I now noticed another piercing feature about my soon-to-be flat mate. His cheekbones. I had no idea how I could have missed such a striking feature. And though I was completely aware that a medical professional shouldn't ever fancy such impossible nonsense, they looked like he had cleanly chiseled glass under his skin, instead of bone; for how could a bone be that inhumanly sharp, unless…

I took a small glance to the door when I realized I had been staring too long. "Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive," I spoke, my eyes gazing out at all the housing, closely ranged restaurants and cafes. Prime indeed. But my mind was turning over the possibility of food deprivation. Had Sherlock been slowly starving himself? He was in for a rude awakening with a doctor as a flatmate, that was certain.

I turned back to Sherlock as he began to speak. "Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

Help out? Yes, now I understood. It must have been as a defense lawyer. Which meant Sherlock was a defense lawyer, didn't it? There was still some doubt. "Sorry—you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh no. I ensured it." He smiled at me as the front door was freed by Mrs Hudson, who opened her arms to the younger man.

So, prosecution lawyer.

"Sherlock, hello," She greeted warmly.

Sherlock turned and hugged her briefly, then stepped back and presented myself to her. "Mrs Hudson, Doctor John Watson."

She reminded me of my late aunt, Lucy. Short red hair, a bubbly personality, and a bright friendly smile that could make the sun envious. Though she didn't smell of freshly baked biscuits this lady's voice was softer and warmer than my aunt's could ever reach.

"Hello," she said.

"How do?"

"Come in." Mrs. Hudson gestured me inside. My breath caught as I stepped up and into the door, but it was easier with the slight push from the landlady.

"Thank you," I said kindly.

Right away I began to notice a faint odor that I couldn't place as I climbed, or rather hobbled up the stairs. Sherlock was, of course, already there watching me with a tired look in his eye at how slow I was, though it was barely recognizable. I knew the look none the less.

When I reached the top step, Sherlock opened the door ahead of me and walked in, revealing the living room of the flat. I had a look around at all the boxes and belongings stuffed in odd as well as natural places. It looked like the flat's previous occupant was a bit of a miser, going by all the unusual junk scattered about.

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed," I remarked swiftly.

"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely," he replied.

I saw him surveying the area with a grin on his face, obviously for my benefit. But stupidly said, "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out…," simultaneously while he said another, "So I went straight ahead and moved in."

An 'Oh' is all I managed after I said my piece, but I caught the flash of embarrassment before he completely turned away from me. I understood now that Sherlock had already started moving in and the junk that I had mentioned was Sherlock's belongings. I let out a breath.

"So this is all…"

"Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit, he said hurriedly, then walked around the room in a half-hearted attempt to tidy up a little, throwing a few folders into a box and then taking some apparently unopened envelopes across to the fireplace where he put them onto the mantelpiece and then stabbed a multi-tool knife into them. It was then that a certain item resting on the mantelpiece caught my eye and I lifted my cane to point to it.

"That's a skull, I remarked frankly, my imagination threatening to run away with me at the many reasons, variations and possibilities why someone such as Sherlock would possess such an object. I had many theories, but none seemed to reach a reasonable conclusion no matter how long I pondered it. Maybe it was just a fake decoration after all.

I internally sighed. Ella was right, I did have trust issues.

"Friend of mine. When I say 'friend' …" He responded, only worsening my suspicions. Who was this man, Hamlet?

The sound of the landlady's voice brought me out of my thoughts. "What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Of course we'll be needing two," I blurted out. I wasn't gay and hearing someone insinuate something that I knew was false after just meeting me, was inappropriate.

"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here." She Confidentially, dropped her voice to a whisper by the end of the sentence. "Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones."

I looked over to Sherlock expecting him to confirm that we were in no way involved in that way but he appeared oblivious to the insinuation and just carried on working. Did that mean he thought there was something between us?

I saw the landlady walk to the kitchen, "Oh, Sherlock. The mess you've made." Then I heard tidying noises coming from inside.

By this time, though, I was starting to feel the 2 block walk in my shaking legs so I moved over to one of the two arm chairs and fluffed up a cushion before dropping heavily down into it. It felt good to get the weight off my leg for a while, no matter how pathetic it looked. I fixed my eyes on Sherlock who was still trying to tidy up a bit, giving me another reminder that I had caused it. But I couldn't dwell on that when I had something important to say to the man.

"I looked you up on the internet last night." Yeah, so tell me if you're a fake or not?

Sherlock turned to me with those inquisitive eyes from our Lab meeting. "Anything interesting?"

Just continue. "Found your website, The Science of Deduction."

He smiled proudly, and suddenly I felt like I was a frustrated adult about to pop a child's balloon. "What did you think?"

So be it. I looked at him incredulously, somehow thinking that one look could convey all my disappointing words without speaking, and apparently they did. Sherlock looked hurt and I regretted what I had done.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb. "

"Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone. "

He still wasn't letting up. "How?"

He smiled and turned away. What was that supposed to mean?

Mrs. Hudson exited the kitchen reading a newspaper. "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

Sherlock walked over to the window at the sound of a car pulling up to the curb. "Four. There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

"A fourth?" Mrs. Hudson inquired.

I had been aware of the suicide cases, as a chap on the tube informed me of the details. At the time I didn't think serial suicides were possible- I had never even heard of it. But apparently such a thing was possible. I knew being a prosecution lawyer, Sherlock wouldn't have to know about something as final as suicides. There was nothing more to be done except contacting the next of kin and performing a funeral service; no court appearances. So why was there a police car outside the flat?

Sherlock turned towards the front door as another gentleman who apparently picked the lock on it, trotted up the steps and entered the sitting room. The man had grayish hair with tinges of a darker shade mixed in, his eyes were auburn, framed in a strong Roman face with skin that looked like it had been singed slightly by the sun; but the tan was almost completely faded, which meant he had taken a vacation a few months ago.

I suspected this man was a policemen or some other law enforcement official, the same one from the car below us on the street.

"Where?" Sherlock said.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different," Sherlock replied.

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?" The official said, in a way that was a hairs width away from a plead.

Come? The police don't need a prosecution attorney to visit the scene of the crime. Even if it this one was different, It was still suicide. I listened intently to the rest of their conversation, hoping to find answer to my many questions regarding Mr. Holmes.

"Who's on forensics?"

"It's Anderson."

I saw Sherlock grimace at the mention of the name and I knew that he must've had trouble with the chap before.

"Anderson won't work with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant."

"I need an assistant."

I finally understood. This man wasn't a prosecution attorney, he was a private detective. The police must need his help in determining the validity of the present case. Though, upon further musing, I remembered that police didn't go to private detectives. Again, I was in the dark about this matter.

"Will you come?" The man asked, clearly desperate.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind," Sherlock said simply.

"Thank you."

The gentleman looked around at me and then to Mrs. Hudson before hurrying off down the stairs. I turned towards Sherlock who suddenly leapt into the air, clenching his fists triumphantly before twirling around the room happily like he had just won the lottery. "Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!"

It was safe to say that I was now worried about the sanity of my future flat mate jumping about like a million pounds when he heard of a note at the crime scene of a suicide.

I didn't have long to muse about this though— as Sherlock had already picked up his Belstaff coat, and scarf, putting them on as he headed for the kitchen. I had to admit it suited him well, giving him extra hight and a presence about him that I was growing to like more and more.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food," he informed.

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," the woman replied matter-of-factly.

"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" Sherlock grabbed a small leather pouch from the kitchen table, then opened the kitchen door, disappearing from view.

Mrs. Hudson turned back to me, but I didn't turn to her. "Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same."

I grimaced at her repeated implication that I and Sherlock were an item. I may have not had many girl friends in my life, but I knew I never found the male sex attractive in 'that' way. 'I am not gay,' I wanted to shout, but thought against it as we were still strangers.

"But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell."

I gave her a brief, uncomfortable glance. I was anything but the sitting down type. All my life before the accident I was very energetic, I had to be to become a doctor, much less an army doctor. If I sat down then, most of the time, it would be a life lost. Though I supposed rather begrudgingly, I was the sitting down type now, and anger flared up inside me.

Mrs. Hudson then turned towards the door. "I'll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg."

That was it. All the pent up feelings and thoughts I'd had after being invalided all merged into one. "Damn my leg!" I shouted, but I immediately sobered up and apologized, seeing the landlady's shocked expression. She didn't deserve my outburst.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing …" I bashed my leg with the cane, but instantly regretted it as I felt a sting of pain flare up, though I hide its affect from Mrs. Hudson.

"I understand, dear; I've got a hip," she said. As if that was equivalent to the trouble of a nearly defective leg. At least she didn't have to clop around with a cane all the time, I thought bitterly.

She turned towards the door again.

"Cup of tea'd be lovely, thank you," I replied, taking up her previous offer, though I realized my tone was begrudging.

"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper."

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em."

It wasn't like I could make myself anything. Ever since I'd been invalided, my choice of meals was either a microwave dinner, or take out I usually ordered from Angelo's. Something home-cooked sounded appealing.

"Not your housekeeper!" She replied in a louder tone, but my current focus was the newspaper I had picked up, which Mrs. Hudson had put down prior, on the right arm of the chair. I made a quick scan of it when something caught my eye— an article reporting Beth Davenport's apparent suicide. Next to that photograph was a smaller one showing the police official who just visited the flat and identified him as D.I. Lestrade. Before I could read on, Sherlock's booming voice broke my concentration "You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor."

I looked up to see him standing at the sitting room door. "Yes," I replied, curious as to where this line of conversation was going. I got to my feet and turned towards Sherlock.

"Any good?"

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths."

"Mmm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet."

Yes, get to the point. "Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Wanna see some more?"

Those four words held my salvation in them. I had felt useless for months now, I even recently begged the office if I could re-join the Fusiliers, but all the woman gave me was the mandatory, _'I'm sorry sir, but your injuries prevent you from handling surgical tools or a firearm. You have served your country enough, now it's time to retire and embrace civilian life.'_

Automatically, my fervent response was, "Oh God, yes." I wanted it all again. I wanted to feel the danger, to feel adrenaline gushing through my veins, to feel alive again and not as some half-cripple; To be some assemblance of a soldier again, or even an army doctor.

Sherlock spun on his heals and lead me out of the room down the stairs. But where were we going that had that kind of action? I called out as I followed him down. Mrs. Hudson was there at the bottom, holding a tray of tea in her hands.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out," I said.

"Both of you?" She said, disbelievingly.

Sherlock had almost reached the front door but then turned towards the landlady. "Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" He took her by the shoulders and kissed her noisily on the cheek.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent." She couldn't help but smile, though, as he turned away and resumed heading for the front door.

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!"

I walked out with him onto the street, watching as Sherlock hailed an approaching black cab."Taxi!"

The taxi pulled up alongside us and we slid in before the car drove off again, headed for some location unknown to me. I had to fix that.

We sat in silence for the longest time while Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on his smartphone. I wanted to know where we were going, but I didn't exactly want to broach the subject, breaking the silence, so I kept on stealing nervous glances at him. Finally though, Sherlock lowered his phone. I didn't have to be the one to break the silence after all.

"Okay, you've got questions." Obviously, Sherlock.

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next?"

"Who are you? What do you do?"

"What do you think?"

I was hesitant to answer. I knew for certain that he wasn't a prosecution attorney, but I also knew that he wasn't a private detective. That was all I had to go on. I decided to choose the most likely option and hope I was correct. I spoke slowly, hesitantly. "I'd say private detective …"

"But?"

" ... but the police don't go to private detectives."

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?" I replied.

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs." I grinned disbelievingly, which earned me a look in return. This man was not a professional, his blog had 'amateur' written all over it. If anything, Sherlock an aspiring consulting detective.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room ...

JOHN _(looking around the lab): Bit different from my day._

 _SHERLOCK: "... said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq."_ _(He loudly clicks the 'k' sound at the end of the final word.)_

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp – of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother."

Wrong, I didn't have a brother. "Hmm?"

He held out his hand. At first I wasn't sure what he wanted.

"Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then."

I followed his gaze to my phone and handed over the item. Sherlock turned it over and inspected it as he talked again, same quick-fire he did at Bart's.

"Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving." I fixed my eyes on the engraving:

Harry Watson

From Clara

xxx

"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."

My eyes blew wide. "How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

Sherlock smiled. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them." He handed the phone back. "There you go, you see – you were right."

Maybe I had just misheard. "I was right? Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs." He stared out the side window, bitting his lip nervously. Obviously he was waiting for my reaction, expecting a pretty bad one going by the level of nervousness he was exhibiting.

It took me a few extra seconds to still the words that were bombarding me, twisting and turning my thoughts to the mobile clutched in my hand. Fragments of Sherlock's quick-fire speech were still ringing, bringing me back to his blog. 4 hours prior, I believed the man next to me to be an overconfident amateur; now I knew I was completely wrong. "That ... was amazing."

Sherlock looked around surprised; a flicker of the city lights reflected in his eyes. "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

I frowned. "What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off'!"

Sherlock smiled briefly, and the action tugged the corners of my mouth into a grin before I turned to look out the window as our journey continued.

* * *

The conversation continued. First time in a long time, I was enjoying it. Sherlock would subtly slip in questions about my military background, and I would briefly ask him questions about his work. Thankfully, neither one of us mentioned being shot or dirt moments in our lives— things that should never be spoken of aloud. Not that I would know what to say to them; _Yeah, I was shot in the shoulder while rushing to a victim, it felt hot and painful like a burning coal shot through your skin at piercing speed._

Seriously, what kind of explanation would that be?

When the cab finally stopped, I was hesitant to get out at first, remembering the reason I never took cabs to travel. But Sherlock was charging on toward the police tap strung across the road, apparently unaware that I wasn't following.

It only took a split second of decision before I was following behind, leg tight with numbness from the trip. It was better than pain.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock suddenly asked, breaking the silence.

Yes, but it didn't really matter anymore. "Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker."

Sherlock looked smug and impressed with himself which irritated me for whatever reason. "Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"And Harry's short for Harriet." I spit out, then carried on walking.

I smirked as I heard him stop cold behind me.

"Harry's your sister."

The gravity of the situation had caught up with me. I was at a crime scene with a consulting detective but I had absolutely no idea how I, an army doctor, was useful there. What was my use? "Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"

I heard Sherlock snarl furiously through gritted teeth. "Sister!" The man was being way overly dramatic for just getting a fact wrong.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?" I echoed again.

Sherlock started walking again, exasperated. "There's always something," he muttered, still not answering me.

When we approached the police tap, a police woman with African American and native American features was standing on the other side of the tape. Her skeptical gaze scanned Sherlock, but strangely enough, not me.

"Hello, freak." I heard her coldly spit, making me wonder how many enemies my soon to be flatmate had.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector, Lestrade," Sherlock answered calmly.

"Why?"

"I was invited," Sherlock pressed, slightly irritated.

"Why?" She said again, proving my original thought. They both loathed each other.

Sherlock spoke sarcastically. "I think he wants me to take a look."

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?"

Sherlock lifted the tap and ducked underneath it. "Always, Sally." He then breathed in audibly through his nose. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't …" Sally. So that was her name. Her gaze finally drifted to me. Thank God! I was beginning to think I was invisible. "Er, who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson." Sherlock turned to me. "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan." His voice was practically dripping with sarcasm, though it felt strangely refreshing to be acknowledged by him in such a way after just feeling invisible a few minutes earlier. "Old friend."

"A colleague? How do you get a colleague?!" Sally turned to me inquisitively like I was some kind of alien organism. "What, did he follow you home?"

I inwardly scoffed at her implication, glancing quickly between the two of them. "Would it be better if I just waited and …"

I stopped talking as Sherlock lifted the tape for me to pop under. "No."

For what ever reason my resolve was easily broken and I complied without even thinking twice. Was it possible that I had formed some sort of trust in Sherlock now? We've known one another for like a day, so surely I hadn't developed trust in that short amount of time when I had been seeing my therapist for months and have never given her that kind of power. What made Sherlock Holmes different?

Sally spoke in the same icy tone, almost dead-panned. "Freak's here. Bringing him in." She lead us towards the house, though reluctantly and only out of duty. I spied Sherlock scanning the area and the ground as we approached.

Upon reaching the pavement, a man dressed in a coverall came out of the house.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again."

"So this was Anderson, the one that Lestrade had mentioned, and caused Sherlock to blow off the name and assistant possibility. Though, I could see why. Just looking at the man, I could see that the air of confidence was a complete sham and he was compensating for a lack of something. Whether it be intelligence or his bland looks. Maybe it was both.

He was looking at Sherlock with distaste. "It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

Sherlock took another deep breath through his nose. I could sense his frustration with the man from where I was standing. "Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?"

Anderson frowned at the implication. "Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?" Anderson said, about ready to scoff. Of course, this was similar to the phone deduction in the cab. I had no idea how he could tell his wife was away by the scent of his deodorant, but I had a feeling I was about to find out.

Sherlock quirked. "It's for men."

"Well, of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!" The man shot back incredulously.

"So's Sergeant Donovan."

Anderson looked around in shock at his Colleague who was standing with her mouth agape. Right away I knew what Sherlock was implying. The very thought of a man like that having sexual relations with this sour woman seemed so preposterous that I almost wondered if I understood the implication correctly. Sherlock then sniffed pointedly.

"Ooh, and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"

Anderson just turned back and pointed at him angrily. "Now look: whatever you're trying to imply …"

"I'm not implying anything," was Sherlock's response and I couldn't help the amused smile that twitched my lips. Sherlock then headed past Donovan towards the front door. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over." He turned back and gave Sally a once over. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

I caught Anderson and Donovan's stares of horror. They were nearly akin to the ones I had silently conveyed to Sherlock in the cab.

Sherlock smiled smugly, then turned and went into the house.

As I walked past Donovan, I briefly but pointedly looked down at her knees. The material was very clearly wrinkled around her kneecaps. Of course Sherlock was being sarcastic when he mentioned she scrubbed his floors, as if implying a sponge and a bucket when he really meant….

The passing time was suddenly more perceivable and without another thought towards the previous subject, I followed Sherlock inside the house.

Sherlock lead me into a room on the ground floor where D.I. Lestrade was putting on a coverall. He pointed to a pile of similar items, then spoke to me. "You need to wear one of these."

Lestrade chimed in. "Who's this?"

Sherlock took his gloves off before responding. "He's with me."

"But who is he?"

"I said he's with me," Sherlock emphasized the 'said' in that statement, not wanting to beat around the bush to explain who I was, though, with the fast rate of replies, I was deterred from answering the DI's questions myself.

After slipping off my jacket, I picked up a coverall. I looked over at Sherlock expecting him to be wearing one as well, but he was still clad in his great Belstaff coat and navy blue scarf, smugly indifferent to donning anything but a pair of latex gloves apparently.

"Aren't you gonna put one on?" I asked.

Sherlock just looked at me sternly, his eyes a smokey haze. I shook my head. Of course he wasn't going to put one on, that should've been obvious to me.

"So where are we?" He asked Lestrade.

"Upstairs."

Lestrade lead us up a circular staircase. Both of us wearing coveralls together with white cotton coverings over our shoes, and latex gloves. Sherlock was still putting on his latex gloves as we went up the stairs. The DI spoke. "I can give you two minutes."

"May need longer, Sherlock replied, casually.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her." He lead us into a room two stories above the ground floor. The room was empty of furniture except for a rocking horse in the far corner. Emergency portable lighting had been set up, presumably by the police, casting shadows on the walls and floor while at the same time illuminating our path. Scaffolding poles held up part of the ceiling near where a couple of large holes had been knocked through one of the walls.

I felt a tug of the usual pain, regret, anger, sadness, and disappointment grab at me as I beheld the sight in front of me, my face no doubt openly conveying some of my emotions, as I wasn't able to suppress them all.

A woman's body was lying face down on the bare floorboards in the middle of the room. She was wearing a bright pink overcoat and high-heeled pink shoes. Her hands were flat on the floor either side of her head.

Sherlock walked a few steps into the room and then stopped, holding one hand out in front of himself as he focused on the corpse.

We all stood like this, silently, for several long seconds as if trying to contemplate why such an act was committed. Of course, seeing as the reasons were different for everyone, all we could do was guess why this poor soul was lying dead on the floor right now; why she lost all hope that life would be brighter after a few clouds drifted away. At least, that's what kept me straight all through the boring, self-hating, lonely months I was invalided.

Sherlock then looked across to Lestrade. "Shut up."

I snapped to attention at Sherlock's startling voice. Apparently, so did Lestrade. I was wondering if I had zoned out through a conversation between them; hearing the sudden hostility.

"I didn't say anything," he voiced, a little shakiness in his voice.

"You were thinking. It's annoying," Sherlock replied.

I turned to Lestrade and we exchanged a surprised look. Well, actually I was the one surprised, the DI seemed more disappointed, than anything. It made me wonder what my flatmate's relationship had been with him; how long he had really known the man standing next to me.

I watched as Sherlock stepped slowly forward until he reached the side of the corpse. I took this time to look over the body more thoroughly. Scratched into the floorboards near the woman's left hand was the word "Rache". Her fingernails on the index and middle were broken and ragged at the ends, the pink nail polish chipped in stark comparison to her other nails which were still immaculate. The woman's index finger rested at the bottom of the 'e' as if she was still trying to carve into the floor when she died. There was a gold bracelet around her left wrist and two rings on her left finger, signifying engagement and marriage.

After I was finished, I watched Sherlock as he continued examining the victim, His head shook dismissively a little ways through, then he continued on, crouching and touching areas of interest…

Sherlock then smiled slightly in satisfaction. Yes, of course he found something.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked.

"Not much," was my flatmates reply, but I could tell that he was just being nonchalant as the small smile hadn't disappeared yet. He stood up, took off the gloves and then dug out his mobile phone from his pocket and began typing on it.

Before I had much time to contemplate his actions, Anderson's voice broke though from the doorway. "She's German. 'Rache': it's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something …"

While he was speaking, Sherlock walked quickly towards the door. I watched as he slowly began to close it in Anderson's face.

"Yes, thank you for your input, Sherlock said sarcastically and slammed the door shut. Now I knew why they didn't work together, because they didn't work together, at all. In the short time that I had known Sherlock, I got the impression that he didn't ever respond to dumb comments or questions and it turned out that my first impression of Anderson had been correct in that standing.

After slamming the door, Sherlock then made his way back toward us, typing on his phone.

"She's German?"

Sherlock answered without looking up from his phone. "Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night …" He smiled smugly when he apparently found the information he needed. ... "before returning home to Cardiff." He pocketed his phone.

I half wondered if Sherlock somehow got a hold of the woman's travel journal.

"So far, so obvious."

It wasn't obvious to anyone else in the room who couldn't see the screen. "Sorry – obvious?"

"What about the message, though?" I heard Lestrade quarry, but the detective was still looking at me.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?"

"Of the body. You're a medical man." Yes, I was a medical man, but up until a few minutes ago I had been just expecting to be checking out a flat, not examine a dead body. Taking all this into account, it still naturally caught me by surprise that I was even there.

As I was about to answer, Lestrade voiced his thoughts. "Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside."

"They won't work with me." More people who wouldn't work with him. This time the whole team wouldn't. Though I was still contemplating who the blame fell upon.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here."

"Yes ... because you need me," Sherlock said with a finality that hinted he was sure to quell all other retorts on the matter.

Lestrade stared at him for a moment, then lowered his eyes helplessly. "Yes, I do. God help me."

"Doctor Watson."

I looked up from the body and turned to face my flatmate. "Hm?" I then remembered and turned towards Lestrade, silently seeking his permission. He was in charge, I was not.

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself," Lestrade answered tetchily. I heard him step outside as I was walking over to the body. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes."

Sherlock squatted down on one side and I painfully lowered myself to one knee on the other side, leaning heavily on my cane for support.

Well?

I kept my voice soft. "What am I doing here?"

"Helping me make a point," Sherlock replied, using the same decibel.

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"Yeah, well, this is more fun."

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead. I said incredulously, my volume increased.

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

Inwardly sighing, I drug my other leg down into a kneeling position and then leant forward to look more closely at the woman's body. Putting my head close to hers, I sniffed; the acrid aroma of vomit was present, but there wasn't any smells of alcohol. Straightening a little, I lifted her right hand and looked at the skin; Rigor Mortis was still in affect and her body temperature was neutral, meaning she had recently died a few hours ago. I knelt up and looked across to Sherlock.

"Yeah ... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs."

"You know what it was. You've read the papers," he softly retorted.

"Well she's one of the suicides. The fourth ...?"

"Sherlock – two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got."

Sherlock stood up while I struggled to my feet. "Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

Lestrade spoke up. "Suitcase?"

I looked around the room but I couldn't see a suitcase anywhere.

"Suitcase, yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up …"

Sherlock pointed down to the woman's left hand. Right away, I could feel another quick-fire deduction about to lift off. "Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"That's brilliant," I spoke up in admiration, which was clearly a mistake as Sherlock looked round at me. "Sorry."

"Cardiff?" Lestrade voiced, continuing on my line of thought.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock responded.

"It's not obvious to me," I retorted. The woman seemed to have an array of probable places she could've traveled from, though I didn't expect my flatmate to understand our lack of knowledge on the subject; seeing as he already researched it.

The detective paused and looked at us. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." He turned back to the body.

"Her coat: it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?"

He retrieved his phone from his pocket and showed us the other two webpages he was looking at earlier, displaying not at all what I thought, but simply today's weather for the southern part of Britain. "Cardiff."

"That's fantastic!" I exclaimed, though, again, Sherlock turned to me but spoke in a low voice.

"D'you know you do that out loud?"

I reigned in my exuberance. "Sorry. I'll shut up."

"No, it's … fine."

"Why d'you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade questioned, then Sherlock spun around in a circle to search around the room, his coat fanning out from his body with the movement.

"Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing 'Rachel'?"

I turned to Lestrade with an incredulous look on my face. Rachel was more probable than that Rache word. She could have been a family member, probably not friend as dying people tend to reach out to those who are familiar, _safe._ Whether it's speaking their name with their last breath or in this case, scratching a loved ones name out on the floor, I knew the action well from experience. Sherlock was right.

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German! Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How d'you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade pressed.

Sherlock pointed down to the body. "Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." He squatted down by the woman's body and examined the backs of her legs more closely.

"Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case," Lestrade replied, clearly agitated with the question.

Sherlock slowly raised his head and frowned up at Lestrade. "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase."

Immediately Sherlock straightened up and headed for the door, calling out to all the police officers in the house, the sound of pounding feet on the stairs sounding afterwards. His shoutings were muffled from the distance, but I could still make out his words. "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

Lestrade and I followed him out and stopped on the landing. He then called down the stairs. "Sherlock, there was no case!"

Sherlock slowed down but still continued making his way down the stairs. "But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn't miss them."

"Right, yeah, thanks! And ...?" Lestrade inquired.

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings – serial killings." He held his hands up in front of his face in delight. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?"

Sherlock stopped and called up to us. "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?(!) Someone else was here, and they took her case." The detective lowered his voice, as if talking to himself. "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

Or she could have checked into a hotel and forgot her case when she left. "She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there," I said.

Sherlock looked up the stairs again. "No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking …" He stopped talking as he made a face that was as if he was envisioning a grand realization.

"Oh." His eyes widened and his face lit up like a christmas tree. He clapped his hands together in delight.

I was very curious what had Sherlock behaving in such a way. "Sherlock?" I called.

Lestrade leaned over the railings beside me. "What is it, what?"

Sherlock said nothing but smiled cheerfully to himself. "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!"

"Oh, we're done waiting!"

With that, he started to hurry down the stairs again. "Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" He reached the bottom of the stairs and disappeared from view.

Bullocks.

"Of course, yeah – but what mistake?!" The DI shouted.

Right when I thought him gone, Sherlock came back into view and ran up a couple of stairs to be in our line of sight before he stopped and yelled up to Lestrade.

"PINK!" He hurried off again. Lestrade, clearly looked baffled to me before he went back into the room while Anderson and his team, who had been waiting on the next landing down, hurried up the stairs and follow him into the room.

Anderson chimed in. "Let's get on with it."

Well very good for them, but I couldn't exactly run down the stairs like my partner.

Forgotten by everyone else, I took a calming breath, hesitating on the landing for a moment. This was never going to be easy. I found myself doubting my use to the bolt of energy that whizzed ahead and who was no doubt already in the cab waiting. I would slow him down every investigation and I knew it. Slowly, I started making my way down the stairs, hesitating long enough so in the next moments I was hurrying down— when one of the men bumped against me, throwing my body off-balance, causing me to lurch heavily against the banister. Not only that, but a tremor of unprecedented pain shot up the entire length of my leg.

I had to clench my teeth to keep from crying out as the man hurried on without a word, although his colleague did at least look apologetically at me as he passed. I winced, regained my balance and continued down the stairs.

Setting my coverall on the table, I grabbed my jacket from the hook and walked out onto the street. There was no waiting cab and no Sherlock anywhere I looked. I was just dead-weight that had been left behind.

There was only one thing to do now. Call off the whole flatshare idea and go back to my lonely, bedsit like before. Before I had ever met that extremely difficult, pompous, egotistical, and…. intriguing man. Who was I kidding. I couldn't go back to that dismal hovel; to being _painfully_ alone again. I… couldn't do it.

All I needed to do was tell the man I couldn't assist on any more cases.

As I walked towards the police tap, still looking around in case I missed something, Donovan saw me.

"He's gone." She spoke, flatly.

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that."

Just as I suspected. "Is he coming back?"

"Didn't look like it."

"Right." I looked around, trying to think of a fast way to get home. But there was not one cab in sight…. Could be a problem. "Right ... Yes." I turned back to Donovan again.

"Sorry, where am I?"

"Brixton," She replied.

"Right. Er, d'you know where I could get a cab? It's just, er ... well …" I glanced down awkwardly to my cane, trying to convey to her that I couldn't just walk all the way to Baker Street without inflicting some serious damage. "my leg."

"Er …" Donovan stepped over to the tape and lifted it for me ... "try the main road."

I ducked under the tape. "Thanks," I responded back.

"But you're not his friend," she blurted out, causing me to turn back towards her. "He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

No, I wasn't his friend. Business partner maybe, but Sherlock would never be friends with a half-cripple. "I'm ... I'm nobody. I just met him."

"Okay, bit of advice then: stay away from that guy."

Sherlock had a history, a bad one? No. He was a bit psychotic, but I didn't really ever feel threatened by him, or in danger. "Why?"

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there."

Sherlock, a murderer? I admit I hadn't known him very long, but our time together never gave me that murderer vibe. Mrs. Hudson loved the man and he her. What was her reason for spouting such a preposterous accusation. "Why would he do that?"

"Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored."

Alright, maybe a psychopath, but not a murderer. Then again, who was I to judge so early. I had a feeling that I would know by tomorrow what kind of man Sherlock Holmes really was.

"Donovan!"

Donovan turned away from me, calling out to her superior. "Coming." As she walked away towards the house, she turned back to me. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes," she said bluntly, in her lower class accent that really bugged the hell out of me.

Stay away. But what if I didn't want to stay away. I didn't expect to be in charge of a lot of things going on in my life, but I was damn well going to be in charge of this. I watched her leave for a moment, the smugness practically forming an aura around her, then turned and began to limp off down the road in search of a cab.

* * *

 **Thank you so much for reading, following, favoriting, and reviewing! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and these have helped to quell the frustration that the epic series 4 trailer gave us. Cause really, I still feel frustrated that it wasn't at least a little longer. Anyway, feel free to review :)**

 **Lovely whim:** That. Was. Amazing! : )

Reply: You think so? SH

 **KathyG:** Be my guest!

Reply: Thank you for reading! SH

 **Lovely whim:** This was SO cool! It would be neat to have a few blog entries here and there. I'm looking forward to more!

Reply: I will keep that in mind. SH


End file.
